


you try to play cool

by leedeeloo



Category: Planet Booty (Band), TWRP | Tupper Ware Remix Party (Band)
Genre: M/M, New Relationship, discussions of kink, non consensual scare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 04:36:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18749143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leedeeloo/pseuds/leedeeloo
Summary: Sung and Dylan had hit that weird stage of dating. Well, not weird. Awkward. This is about them having at hiccup at that stage.





	you try to play cool

They’d hit that weird stage of dating. Well, not weird. Awkward. The scary part. The part where it wasn’t just laughing against Dylan’s lips, flirting with him, exploring each others bodies. The part where Sung had to say all these fiddly little ugly things about himself, with the hope Dylan would scoop them up and give a shit.

At least Dylan made it fun. Or at least feel like it.

He was nuzzling against Sung’s neck, breath on his collarbone, Sung’s legs over his, sidesaddle.

“Yeah?” he asked, smooth and sweet into Sung’s ear, “what else?”

Sung was glad he didn’t have to look Dylan in the eye for this. “I like you forcing me to do something. Or the idea of that, I guess.” Dylan didn’t say anything. Maybe nodded. Sung kept going. “You know, a-- a kind of controlled out of control? I’d like if we could play with that.”

“That’s some heavy play,” Dylan finally said.

“I know,” Sung replied. He leaned back, against Dylan’s hand on his waist, slipping his fingers up Dylan’s chest, just before his shoulders crested. “I want it, though.”

Dylan hummed, pulled Sung into his lap properly, his weight fully on Dylan. His grip on Sung’s body got more sure.

“Don’t need you to want that,” he said, and kissed Sung before he could really hear that.

Sung’s brow creased, and he tried to turn his head, to ask clarification. But Dylan didn’t let up; he followed the movement of Sung’s head, keeping their lips together.

A rustle of fabric-- Dylan’s shirt against the couch-- as he started to move them, started to lay Sung down on the cushion.

Sung didn’t think he was breathing.

His head dipped a little, Dylan’s hand next to it on the cushion, causing a divot. He pulled away, looked at Sung. His forehead creased up, eyebrows coming together, a small whisper of ‘what’ passing over his lips.

Sung pressed his hands to the middle of Dylan’s chest, and pushed his arms out straight. It gave him enough space to scoot and shimmy backward, until his head hit the arm of the couch, and he could sit up again, his knees to his chest.

“Sung,” Dylan muttered.

“Thought you were-- were gonna keep going,” Sung spat out. He didn’t look at Dylan, but through him. Watched his shape change, the shape of a man morph across the couch, to sit up in almost a mirror pose, not blocking anything off with his legs like Sung was.

“Wh-- no. No, Sung, I wasn’t gonna--”

“I thought,” Sung repeated. “You said you didn’t need me to… I thought you were, like, showing you didn’t need my permission, or something.”

Dylan shook his head, eyes wide. “No! No, god, no, I wouldn’t-- I meant that we don’t need to do that kind of stuff.”

“Okay,” Sung said. He gripped his knees, knew without looking he’d be leaving rows of pink dots. “I wanna go home.”  Neither of them moved. “I mean-- not _home_ , the hotel. I wanna go back to where I’m staying.”

“Alright,” Dylan replied. “I’ll get you an uber, and--”

“No,” Sung interrupted, “no, you can drop me off.”

That nod, that unquestioning agreement, acceptance.

The car ride was quiet. Especially for Oakland.

“I’m sorry,” Dylan said at some point, trying to break the silence.

“It’s fine,” Sung answered, trying to sink back into it.

Giving Dylan a quick peck before he left the car felt neither wrong nor right.

Before he could really comprehend it, he was in the elevator up to his room-- to their rooms. The rest of the guys, the band, should still be in. It was the same weird timelapse to the door, room key in hand, and Sung stopped. Leaned his ear towards the door.

A chatter. A joy.

He walked down to the next door, the room adjoining. His ear towards it again, and that noise was less. The _ba-ding_ of the lock, and he was in. The door between the rooms was open, lights in both on. He glanced over; they were all piled on one bed together, half watching the TV that he could hear but not understand, the mental din of their voices just far enough from him. He gave a small wave, and walked further into the empty room.

He nudged the curtain open enough to peer out and gaze over the parkade. He could go join his friends. They all knew he was here, he could hear their implicit calls for him. Sung crossed his arms, rubbed them. Gave himself a half-hearted hug.

He found his way back down to the lobby, having texted Dylan to come back. Sung paced, some soreness in his legs he couldn’t account for. He ran outside the second he saw Dylan’s car, just about jumped in before he even fully stopped.

“Hey,” Sung said. His voice didn’t feel like his voice coming out of his mouth.

“Hey,” Dylan replied. It didn’t feel like it reached Sung’s ears.

“That was scary,” Sung spat out. “Like, I don’t know, the timing was bad. I was saying, like, I like the idea of you-- of me being forced, but not really, like, just the _idea_ , a fantasy, so, like, earlier--” Sung licked his lips, “--it felt like you were trying to prove something.”

“Prove what?” Dylan asked while Sung breathed.

“Prove you could force me.”  A silence where Sung didn’t want to look at how Dylan’s face shifted. He kept talking. “Like, you thought I was-- like it was a test, I was saying it to see if you could handle it, and you were showing me.”

“No,” Dylan said quickly, almost rashly, “no, I was…” he paused. “...That doesn’t matter, I just wasn’t trying to prove that or anything to you.” His hand twitched; he was thinking of raising it, of putting it on Sung, of giving some comfort. “I’m sorry,” he said instead, “I’m sorry I scared you like that.”

Sung reached across, took Dylan’s hand. “What were you trying to do?”

Dylan squeezed, rubbed his thumb over Sung’s. “I was trying to be flirty, I guess. Keep the mood light.”

“You said you didn’t need me to want it.”

“I shouldn’t’ve,” Dylan almost slurred. “I didn’t realize how that sounded. I should’ve, but I didn’t.” He turned his head and Sung did too, catching one another’s eye. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “If you wanna break things off now, I get it.”

Sung blinked. Thought about it. There was still this churning in him, this turbulence. But he was okay. It was past him now, he felt. He felt calm, and not that eerie, eye of the storm calm he felt before in the hotel room, but real calm-- at ease. He put his other hand on Dylan, grabbing him by the upper arm, and leaned towards him, forehead to Dylan’s shoulder.

“I don’t want that,” Sung said quietly.

Dylan squeezed his hand. “What do you want, then?”

“Wanna go home with you,” Sung answered.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

Dylan pressed a kiss to Sung’s head, into his hair. “I’ll need my hand back for that, then.”

The quiet drive was different this time. Sung kept reaching over, touching Dylan’s face, hair, and he’d push back into Sung’s touch, take his hand quickly at red lights, kiss the palm. Out of the car, and Dylan let Sung take his hands, put them around his waist.

Sung walked backwards into Dylan’s apartment, staying in front of him, chest to chest, as much as he could. He kept touching Dylan’s face, and Dylan let him. Dylan kept grinning, smiling, would twist his head suddenly and open his mouth, making Sung yelp and pull his hands away.  

They were back on Dylan’s couch eventually, Sung nestled under his arm, head on his chest, stretched across the cushions.

“You good?” Dylan asked against Sung’s hair.

“I’m good.”

**Author's Note:**

> this was fuckin exhausting to write and edit but i had to get it out.


End file.
